Page 38 of Two Hit Wonder

Scattered applause. Someone knocked over a glass. The sleeping man at the bar jerked awake and looked around in confusion.

Maeve's feet wouldn't move.

"Come on." Iona was beside her, hand warm on her elbow. "We're supposed to be up there."

"I know that."

"Then why aren't you moving?"

"Because my legs have decided to go on strike."

Iona didn't push. She just stood there, hand still on Maeve's arm, waiting. Patient. Sunshine and calmness when Maeve felt like she might vibrate apart.

"Three songs," Iona said quietly. "That's all. Three songs, and then we're done, and we can go back to insulting each other at rehearsal."

"I liked that part."

"I know you did. Come on."

They walked onto the stage together. The lights were too bright, making Maeve squint. Cam counted them in. Four clicks of her sticks, sharp and decisive.

And then they were playing.

The first verse was rough. Maeve's voice came out tight, strangled with nerves, and she could feel herself overthinking every note. But somewhere in the chorus, something clicked. Her body remembered what her brain had forgotten. The muscle memory came flooding back: how to breathe, how to hold the mic, how to let the music carry her instead of fighting against it.

Cam was solid behind her. Ellie's bass thrummed through the floor, anchoring everything. And Iona's guitar wove through it all, bright and clear, harmonies landing exactly where they should.

They finished the first song. Scattered applause, but genuine this time. Someone whooped. The bartender had stopped looking bored.

The second song was better. The third was something else entirely.

It was messy. Cam came in half a beat late on the bridge. Maeve's voice cracked on a high note. Ellie made a face when she fumbled a transition. None of it mattered. The energy in the room had shifted, become something electric and alive. Even the handful of people in the audience felt like a crowd, felt like validation, felt like coming home.

And when they hit the final chord, Maeve was breathing hard, sweat on her forehead, heart pounding. And she felt something she hadn't felt in fifteen years.

She felt like herself.

Iona was grinning, guitar still vibrating with the last notes. Their eyes met across the tiny stage. Before Maeve could think, before she could overthink, she crossed the distance between them and pulled Iona into a hug.

It was meant to be brief. A celebration. The kind of thing bandmates did after a good show.

But Iona's arms came around her and held on, and Maeve's face was pressed into Iona's hair, which smelled of coconut and something that was just Iona, and she could feel Iona's heart beating against her chest, fast and alive. The applause from the crowd faded to nothing. The sticky floor, the bad lighting, the rust and the noise, all of it disappeared until there was only this: warmth, and breath, and Iona's body solid against hers.

She didn't want to let go. She wanted to stay here forever, wrapped up in this moment, in this person, in this feeling of rightness that she'd spent years trying to forget.

Then her nose twitched.

Whiskey. Sharp and amber and achingly familiar. Her body remembered that too: the burn of it going down, the warmth spreading through her chest, the way it made everything softer and easier until eventually everything fell apart.

She pulled back.

Iona's phone buzzed in her back pocket. She fumbled for it, glanced at the screen, and her face changed. "Shit. Mo. I was supposed to call her an hour ago."

"Go," Maeve said. Her voice came out strangely. "Go call her."

Iona was already backing away, phone to her ear, mouthing "sorry" as she ducked offstage. Cam was saying something about drinks to celebrate. Ellie was packing up her bass. The bartender was calling last orders.

And Maeve stood alone in the middle of the tiny stage, heart still pounding, arms still warm where Iona had been, the ghost of whiskey in her nostrils reminding her of everything she used to be.